Tim Lebbon - Alien - Out of the Shadows

“Helmets,” he called. “Clip your tether lines close, and to something solid.” Ripley fixed her flexible helmet collar and turned on her air supply, and along the corridor in both directions he heard the others doing the same. When he was sure everyone was ready, he fixed his own helmet with one hand, then started drilling.

It was the loudest noise they’d made since opening up the Samson. The metal drill bit skittered across the door’s surface before wedging against a seam and starting to penetrate. Curls of metal wound out and dropped to the floor like robot hair. Smoke wafted, and Hoop saw heat shimmering the air around the drill’s head as the bit bored slowly into the door.

He leaned into the tool, driving it deeper.

It didn’t take long. The drill casing banged against the door when the bit pushed through, and Hoop turned off the power. A high-pitched whistling began instantly as air was forced through the microscopic gap between bit and metal.

He looked around at Ripley. She’d tethered herself to a door handle across the corridor.

“Everyone get ready,” he said into his helmet’s comm. “Here goes nothing.” He placed his gloved hand over the rapid release button on the drill and pressed. A thud, a shudder through the drill, and the bit was sucked through the door and into the vestibule beyond.

Hoop backed away, tying himself to the heavy door handle with the shortest lead possible, then kicked the drill aside.

A piercing whistle filled the corridor as air was sucked out through the tiny hole. The door vibrated in its heavy frame, but it remained solid and secure. Dust cast graceful shapes in the air, shimmering skeins wavering as the artificial lighting flickered with a power surge.

Soon the flow of air ceased, and they were standing in vacuum.

“Everyone okay?” Hoop called. Everyone was.

Which meant the time had come to make their way through to the Samson.

They were assuming there was nothing dangerous left inside. Four aliens had emerged. Two had been killed in the vestibule, another blasted into space when the window had failed, and the fourth was somewhere aboard the Marion. They were as certain as they could be that there had only been four, but there was no saying they hadn’t left something behind when they’d fled— eggs, acid sacs, or something else unknown. They knew so little about the beasts.

“Right. We can’t afford to use the plasma torch or spray guns in the Samson.”

“I’ll go first, then,” Ripley said. She handed the spray gun back to Hoop and hefted the charge thumper. “Makes sense.” And she was through the door before anyone else could speak.

Hoop followed her quickly through the ruined vestibule, past the airlock and along the short docking arm. She paused at the Samson ’s open hatch, but only for a moment. Then she ducked, pushed the charge thumper ahead of her, and entered the dropship.

“Oh, shit,” she said.

“What?” Hoop pressed forward, senses alert. But then he saw what she had seen, and his stomach lurched.

“Going to be a pleasant journey,” Ripley said.

PROGRESS REPORT:

To: Weyland-Yutani Corporation, Science Division

(Ref: code 937)

Date (unspecified)

Transmission (pending)

Presence of previously identified alien species confirmed. Several specimens destroyed.

Warrant Officer Ripley in play. Plan proceeding satisfactorily. Anticipating further update within twelve hours.

I have a purpose once more.

Before undocking with the Marion , Lachance assured them all that he was the best pilot on the ship. His brief display of humor did little to lighten the mood.

Even when Hoop leaned over to Ripley and informed her that the Frenchman might well be the best pilot in the galaxy, she still struggled to hold down her vomit.

Bad enough this was their one and only chance. But forced to make the journey in this dropship, it seemed as if fate was rubbing their faces in the worst of everything that had happened.

Once the internal atmosphere had been restored, they’d been forced to remove their headgear in order to conserve the suits’ limited oxygen supplies.

Anything not bolted or screwed down in the Samson had been sucked out during decompression. But there was still the blood, dried into spattered black smears all across the cream-colored interior paneling, the light-blue fixed seats, and the textured metal decking. And there was the stench of decomposition, still heavy even though the ship had been in vacuum for almost a whole day.

An arm was jammed beneath one row of seating, clawed fingers almost wrapped around the seat post, bones visible through scraps of clothing and skin. Ripley noticed the others doing their best to not look at it, and she wondered whether they knew who it had been. There were tattered insignia on the torn clothing, and a gold ring on one finger.

They should have moved it aside, but no one wanted to touch it.

And aside from the human detritus, there was what had been left behind by the aliens.

The interior of the Samson ’s passenger hold was laid out with two facing rows of seating across an open space, twelve seats per side. In this open space were fixings for equipment storage—they’d secured their various weapons there—and a raised area containing low-level cupboards and racks. Even when sitting, passengers could see over this raised portion to communicate with one another.

At the rear of the cabin, two narrow doors were set into the bulkhead. One was marked as a bathroom, the other Ripley guessed led into the engine room.

They had all chosen to sit as close as possible to the slightly raised flight deck. Lachance and Baxter sat up there, with Ripley and Hoop on one side of the passenger cabin, Kasyanov and Sneddon on the other. None of them wanted to sit at the rear.

None of them even wanted to look.

In their time aboard the ship, the aliens had made the shadowy rear of the cabin their own. The floor, walls, and ceiling were coated with a thick, textured substance. It clung around the two doors, crossing them here and there, like bridges of plastic that had melted, burned, and hardened again. It looked like an extrusion of some kind, dark and heavy in places, glimmering and shiny in others, as if wet. There were hollows that bore a chilling resemblance to shapes Ripley knew well.

The aliens had made their own place to rest, and it was a stark reminder of what had been in here until so recently.

“I hope this trip is quick,” Sneddon said. Kasyanov nodded beside her.

“Lachance?” Hoop asked.

“Last checks,” the pilot said. He was propped in the flight seat, leaning forward and running his hands across the control panels. A screen flickered to life in front of him, two more in the bulkhead by his side. “Baxter? Have we got a link to the Marion ’s computer yet?”

“Just coming online now,” Baxter said. In the copilot’s seat, he had a pull-out keyboard on his lap, hands stroking keys as a series of symbols flashed across the display suspended before him. “Just calling up the nav computer… Ah, there we are.” The windscreen misted for a moment, and when it cleared again it was criss-crossed with a fine grid display.

“Leave it off for now,” Lachance said. “I want to get away from the Marion first. I’m worried there’s still wreckage from the crash matching our orbit.”

“After so long?” Kasyanov asked.

“It’s possible,” Lachance replied. “Okay, everyone strapped in?”

Hoop leaned across Ripley and checked her straps. His sudden closeness surprised her, and she felt his arm brushing her hip and shoulder as he tightened the safety straps.